These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘Then pray do not try, Armand. I have said that you shall not be disappointed.’

‘I am to be dumb? But all Paris will be talking of it soon!’

‘So I think,’ agreed his Grace.

‘Henri won’t like it,’ pondered Armand. ‘But I do not see that it can harm him. So why do you –’

‘My dear, the game is more intricate than you think. You are better out of it, believe me.’

‘Well!’ Armand bit his finger. ‘I can trust you to deal with Henri, I suppose. You love him as much as I do, hein ?’

‘Less than that,’ said his Grace, and went slowly to the couch where Léonie sat. He bowed to Madame de Saint-Vire. ‘Your servant, madame. Once again we meet in this exceedingly draughty salon. My very dear Comte!’ He bowed to Saint-Vire. ‘You renew your acquaintance with my ward?’

‘As you see, Duc.’

Léonie had risen, and stood now beside his Grace. He took her hand, and looked mockingly at the Comtesse.

‘I had the felicity of meeting my very dear friend in the most unexpected spot only a month ago,’ he told her. ‘We were both, an I remember rightly, in search of – er – lost property. Quite a curious coincidence, was it not? It seems that there are some sad rogues in this delightful country.’ He pulled out his snuff-box, and saw the Comte redden.

Then the Vicomte de Valmé came up, smothering a yawn behind his broad hand.

‘Your so charming son,’ purred Avon.

Madame rose quickly, and one of the sticks of her fan snapped under her restless fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she met her husband’s eyes, and stood silent.

The Vicomte bowed to his Grace, and looked admiringly at Léonie.

‘Your servant, Duc.’ He turned to Saint-Vire. ‘Will you present me, sir?’

‘My son, Mademoiselle de Bonnard!’ Saint-Vire said brusquely.

Léonie curtsied, looking closely at the Vicomte.

‘You are ennuyé, Vicomte, as usual?’ Avon fobbed his snuff-box. ‘You pine for the country, and – a farm, was it not?’

The Vicomte smiled.

‘Oh, m’sieur, you must not speak of that foolish wish of mine! In truth, it grieves my parents.’

‘But surely a most – ah – praiseworthy ambition?’ drawled Avon. ‘We will hope that you may one day realise it.’ He inclined his head, offered his arm to Léonie, and walked away with her down the long gallery.

Léonie’s fingers gripped his sleeve.

‘Monseigneur, I have remembered! It came to me in a flash!’

‘What, my infant, is “it”?’

‘That young man. Monseigneur, we met him before, when I was a page, and I could not think who he was like. But just now it came to me! He is like Jean. It is ridiculous, is it not?’

‘Most ridiculous, ma fille. I desire you will not repeat that to anyone.’

‘No, Monseigneur, of course not. I am very discreet now, you know.’

Avon saw Condé in the distance, with the violets pinned to his coat, and smiled a little.

‘I did not know it, infant, nor have I observed any signs of discretion in you, but let that pass. Where, I wonder, is Fanny?’

‘She is talking to M. de Penthièvre, Monseigneur. I think he likes her – oh much! Here she is! She looks very pleased, so I expect M. de Penthièvre has told her that she is just as beautiful as she was when she was nineteen.’